


The Reader-bach Fall

by DoeEyedDarling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Fluff, Meta, Reader doesn't take orders well, Reader-Insert, Sherlock Being Sherlock, You're a college student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:09:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoeEyedDarling/pseuds/DoeEyedDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**** FORMERLY TITLED "AND KEY" ****</p><p>“Go to college,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said.</p><p>It is fun, actually - that is, until a classmate gets a little too carried away during a demonstration and shoves you headfirst out a third-story window.  You wake up with your phone in one hand, some money in the other, and a rather attractive, rather familiar cabbie awaiting payment. All this would be grand, of course, if you had any idea where the hell you are. You could also do without the on-again, off-again migraines and nausea, and - holy mint chocolate chip, is that Benedict Cumberbatch?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little experiment on my part! There are not enough Sherlock/Reader inserts, and I wanted to maybe try? (aka I spent the past few days binge watching Series 1-3 and the Christmas special and I need more so)  
> Hope you enjoy!  
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing (except myself! And also the words I'm typing here, but). Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Additionally, I have never gone to college in my life (yet) but I'll try to make this at least somewhat accurate ;)

You know that gross, groggy feeling you get in your throat and behind your eyes after sleeping for too long? Multiply that by about a thousand. Mix in a bit of confusion, with a dash of _thelightthelightitburnsss_ and voila! Here you are.

 _But...where exactly is here?_ And how exactly did you get here?

You remember...school. _Ugh._ Leaning out the window, preparing to drop an egg encased in green floral foam and duct tape. _I’d better get that extra credit. Ah, jeez, focus, (Y/N), focus._ Mikey Davis pushing you as a joke. The momentum taking you a little too far. Trying and failing to grab at the window sill, and then -

Nothing.

_I am so going to kill Mikey._

Unless you’re already dead. The thought alarms you less than it should - at least you don’t ever have to worry about ever taking the MCAT, ever. On the downside, you’d never have the chance to become a doctor, now, either…

_Focussss._

“Are you planning on waking up sometime this century? I’m on a bit of a schedule.”

You struggle to open your eyes against the artificial lights, and see a man (a very good looking man, in spite of your pounding head and blurry vision) staring at you from the front seat of a car. _I’m in a car?_ You follow his gaze to your right hand, in which is clutched some money - _is that American? That doesn’t look American_ \- and hand it to him questioningly. He accepts. “Thank you, Miss.” _He’s British._ _Or Australian. No, Irish?_

You shake your head a few times, trying to blink the sleep out of your brain, and somehow find the energy to smile. “Thank you.” He nods. It takes you a minute to realize he’s probably waiting for you to get out of the car. _Taxi, then._ You drag yourself across the seat to the door, stumble out onto the pavement, and all of a sudden you feel the tiredness slip off of you, like a snake shedding its skin.

You’re in some kind of city, that much is clear. It’s nighttime, and you’re standing on a sidewalk, and you you you

_hurts.nausea.head.hurts.stop_

You try to take a step forward, but there’s something, no _someone,_ in front of you and you can’t see straight and you stumble into them _black hair black coat black night black vision_ and then -

Nothing.

* * *

The first thing you notice when you wake up again is that it’s morning. The second is that the headache is gone - you can open your eyes without wanting to cry. That being said, your now normal vision allows you to notice one third, crucial piece of information: this is not your bed. Or your room. Probably not your house, either. And the taxi driver sounded British or something - are you even in the right country?

_Taxi driver. He looked...oddly familiar..._

The memories of what you can only assume to be last night swirl around your skull, a whirlpool trying to suffocate your thoughts. _Egg drop - me drop - taxi - stranger - here._ You hope you weren’t “rescued” by an ax murderer. That would really, _really_ suck.

 _Breathe, (Y/N)._ You’re thoughts are moving faster than you can follow, making it difficult for you to assess the situation logically. _I don’t know what happened between falling out that window and waking up in the taxi, so skip that. Clearly, I fell into someone after I got out. Clearly, I blacked out. Clearly, they brought me up here. That’s my phone on the nightstand, right?_ You grab it, letting out a sigh of relief when it accepts your passcode. _Good._ No service, though, or unlocked wifi - not so good. _They left me on the bed, so hopefully they aren’t_ _going to try to kill me -_

“Oh, you’re awake!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry if this is ramble-y - I (unfortunately) don't function well without sleep, and I (also unfortunately) don't fall asleep easily, especially once school is let out - but basically I started writing this first chapter half an hour ago (it's 1:30 AM where I am now and I am exhausted) and couldn't wait to post it. I apologize in advance for any typos - they'll get fixed eventually (hopefully when I wake up - I'm also going to have to add more tags eventually. Probably.).  
> Let me know what you think in the comments! And thank you for reading :)
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	2. Chapter 2

You grab the sheets and pull them up to your nose, relaxing slightly when your eyes fall on the speaker.

“Let me take a look at you - that’s a nasty bump you’ve got there.”

You sit up, letting her brush back your hair to see what you can only assume is a bruise. She has a caregiver’s touch, and a voice to match, but she’s familiar beyond that. “You - I know you?”

“What’s that, dear?”

“You - you play, um, on TV, you play - ”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Oh…” She goes to the doorway, leaving you with at least twice as many questions as you had when you woke up. “What is it?”

“The Internet is out.”

“Not my problem, dear.” She bustles back over to you. “Does it sting?”

“Hm? No, but - ah!” Her fingers graze a sensitive spot, and you pull away. “Sorry.”

She smiles at you warmly, and, despite the confusion, you feel slightly calmer. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go get you a bandage - and maybe some breakfast?”

“I - sure? I mean, thank you, but don’t...you don’t need to make me breakfast.”

“Psh.” She flicks a hand at you. “Don’t be silly. I’ll be right back - you just lie down and rest.”

_Okay…_

Not that you’re not grateful, of course, but you’re having trouble getting over the sheer ridiculousness of the whole situation. Ignoring the fact of you falling out of a classroom window and into a taxi, - and the whole waking-up-in-a-strange-bed thing - the odds of the first person you meet being a woman named Mrs. Hudson, who just _happens_ to be a carbon copy of Una Stubbs? Not very high.

Anyway, what were you doing before she came in? Oh. Phone. _Right._ You shake out the top of the blanket, looking for it, scowling when you notice there’s no service. _Great._ The offline functions should still work, though. You check your messages first.

Gone. All of them. Your contacts, empty. The same goes for your email. You feel the cold beginnings of a panic attack form behind your neck and climb around to your throat, pressing down on your lungs. _Okay. Calm down, this could mean anything._ You’d try to convince yourself it’s only a dream, but you’ve had panic attacks in dreams before, and this isn’t what it feels like. This is too sudden, too real to be a dream.

 _Think. What’s the path of least resistance?_ Logically, you should play along with this, right? Whatever “this” is, anyway. Logic doesn’t always work against anxiety, though; you feel the tip of your tongue beginning to go numb. _Frick. Not good._ You lie back down, forcing yourself to relax every muscle in your body as much as possible. It works well enough: your breathing slows, and you can hear your own thoughts over the blood rushing in your ears. _Good._ The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be to make sense of the whole thing.

“Mrs. HUDSON!”

The door slams open, and you leap back up with a little gasp. You end up somehow re-banging your head on the backboard of the bed on your way up - as though you haven’t done enough of that in the past twenty-four hours - so you aren’t exactly in any state to be defending yourself against potential intruders, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

“I can’t seem to - oh. You aren’t Mrs. Hudson.”

Once again, you find yourself up against the headboard with a blanket clutched to your chest, wide-eyed with terror at whoever’s just barged into your - not-your - bedroom. So wide-eyed, in fact, that it takes you a second to recognize the voice, and the hair, and the _eyes_.

When at last you do, you just about stop breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's supported this story so far. :) Comments, questions, and constructive criticism are, as always, welcome. Until next time!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	3. Chapter 3

He has spent the last fifteen minutes trying to get the wireless connection to work so that he can continue trying to find any online traces of Moriarty, and with John out on another one of his dates, the only other person he can think to ask is -

“Mrs. HUDSON!” He pushes open the door. 

**There’s a girl in John’s bed.**

Of course. They’d rescued her last night - well, John had. Sherlock didn’t see anything wrong with passing her off on the next person who walked by (they had just gotten back from nearly being offed by a criminal mastermind and his team of invisible snipers, after all. Surely that excused them from having to be polite?) but then she’d fainted directly onto him, and somehow, instead of calling an ambulance, they’d ended up bringing her into the apartment. 

The oversized sweatshirt said  **university** . Long hair with split ends ( **doesn’t care, or forgetful, or both** ), hair tie around the wrist ( **active** ), and short, neat nails. That, plus the light impressions of goggles around the eyes, implied  **lab work** , but the lines were relatively fresh, so she’d **only recently begun wearing them** . 

All this (among other things), he saw from helping John carry her up the stairs. Now that she’s conscious, he can see even more.

The way she clutches her phone screams  **late teens, early twenties** . The screen of the phone (a few years old) is unmarked, but the case (good quality) is falling apart - even now, she scratches  **anxious** ly at the broken corners with fairly short nails, apparently out of  **habit** \- echoed by the way she reaches up to push her hair behind her ear, revealing pierced (but bare) ears. Only one piercing in each ear,  **probably done as a child** . She’s  **scared** , obviously, and  **confused** , but that’s to be expected of someone waking up in a strange room **.**

**Familiar.**

Not her to him, but him to her - she stares at him as though she not only recognizes his face, but is awed by his existence. He’d label her  **boring** , but...no. Maybe it’s her confusion, or maybe it’s the fact that she appeared out of nowhere with no discernible means of identification, but something about this girl piques his interest.

Only for a second though - all she’s done so far is stare, after all, and he has other things on his mind. He moves on quickly. “What are you still doing here?”

“Wha?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...trying to emulate Sherlock's deductions in text was significantly harder than I thought it would be! Not that I thought it'd be easy, but wow...so, anyway, that's my excuse for the length of this chapter. I'll try to have the next one up sooner rather than later, to compensate.  
> On that note, are there any other characters whose minds you'd like me to try and get into? Shoot me a PM or let me know in the comments below.  
> Until next update!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	4. Figuring

“Wha?” 

It’s the only response you are capable of forming, and it feels like a pretty logical thing to say at the moment, because  _ holy mint chocolate chip, is that Benedict Cumberbatch? _   Ignoring, of course, that this man is slightly too young, and definitely angrier looking. 

“I didn’t think you’d be here this long. Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?” After several seconds of silence on your part, he cocks his head. “Do you talk?”

“Hm? No. I mean, yes. I mean…” Your mouth hangs open for a moment before you shut it decisively. “Where am I?”

“Who are you?”

“I asked you first.” 

“No, you - ”

_ Ok, I’m over this. Time to wake up, please. _ You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut.  _ One Mississippi...Two Mississippi… _ When you reach five, you look back up, expecting to see an empty classroom or a library desk or even the bland white wall of your dorm.

Nope. 

He’s still there, and you don’t have to be a genius to see he’s losing patience fast. You give up. “Um, (Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N).”

He nods. “You’re American?”

“And you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re - what?”

“Um.” You shake your head, trying, unsuccessfully, to think of a cover. “I…”  _ Nope, I got nothing. _ “Paper. Newspaper.”

“Hm.” 

“Hm.”

“Hm.”

You stare at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time, and you want to break the silence, but  _ what can you say? _ What on Earth can you say at this moment in time that wouldn’t just make you look - or feel - even crazier than you do already?

So you sit.

In silence.

Staring. 

Well, he stares; you try to match for a while, but staring contests have never been your forte, and the prolonged eye contact is seriously starting to creep you out. Finally (thankfully), he speaks. “If you’re not going to say anything interesting, there’s no point in you staying. Out.”  
“What?”

He sighs. “You’re conscious enough to recognize your own name, and the names of perfect strangers, I’d expect you’re conscious enough to find your way down the block, so leave.”

“Fine! Fine.” You shove your phone in your pocket as you get up, ready to march your way down the stairs and out the door -

Before your vision fills with static yet  _ again _ . You trip over nothing in particular and stagger across the room into Sherlock’s arms.  _ Okay, this dizzy-spell thing is starting to get old fast.  _

* * *

 

You wake back up...in the same bed, with the same headache. But Benedict/Sherlock is gone, and the time on your phone has changed by another five minutes. Either you hallucinated the entire previous exchange, or he dropped you back on the bed and ditched you after you passed out. Given what you know of Sherlock’s social graces (or lack thereof), and of your own mental stability at the moment, neither explanation is unlikely. 

Before you get up, though, you might as well check your phone. Just in case the last ten minutes were some kind of bizarre mirage. But your mail, contacts, etc., are just as blank as before.  _ Crap.  _ You swipe left to get to the next screen. Social media...Facebook has been straight-up deleted, along with Instagram, Snapchat, and GroupMe, but…

_ Tumblr? _

Opening it and seeing the familiar blue of your dashboard is strangely soothing. What’s odd, though, is that, despite your lack of internet connection, you seem to be able to refresh. One glance to the bottom of the screen shows another surprising detail: 100 new messages. 

_ What? _

Your blog has never been especially popular - it was never meant to be, anyway. You had some friends who followed you, and that was about it. But 100 new messages, overnight?

 

**_astudyinsherlock said:_ **

**_THE LAST THING SHERLOCK NEEDS IS A LOVE INTEREST fuck you and your dumb blog. hopefully (Y/N) dies before the finale_ **

 

_ What? _

 

**_Anonymous said:_ **

**_love your blog! ik the new season doesnt start for a while, but from what hints we’ve been given, i think im going to like (Y/N)._ **

 

**_221b-for-me said:_ **

**_not sure how to feel about (Y/N). just hoping they dont force a love triangle in an attempt to garner ratings. im glad they picked an unknown actress rather than sell out for a big name to play her, though_ **

 

You back up to your profile, feeling dizzy in an entirely different way. Something’s wrong, something is very, very wrong. The header of your blog is now,  **_ask-bbc-(Y/N)_ ** , instead of your old username. The SIGN OUT button is gone. The avatar is...well, it’s you, but not  _ you _ \- definitely not a selfie, but too high-definition to be a candid (and you’re pretty sure you’d remember someone taking a photo of you that close up, anyway). It looks more like a promo picture or a cropped screencap, if anything, with you and your messy hair and your varsity sweatshirt, leaning against a pale blue wall and looking concernedly at something just past the camera… 

Pretty much exactly what you look like now, actually. 

A faint chill ripples down your spine, and you feel your heart rate pick up again.  _ Let’s be logical. I fell. I bumped my head. I must be dreaming, or in a coma. Or both! _ Not a comforting idea, but infinitely more probable than the alternate explanation, which is that you are - 

The door opens again. “Sorry about that, dearie. He can be a bit peculiar, but he’s really not all that terrible, once you get to know him.” She motions with her chin for you to sit up so she can place the tray on your lap.

You comply, still feeling not entirely present, as though you’re floating above the scene. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Hm?”

“Where are we? I mean, what - where is  _ here _ ?”

You couldn’t have phrased it more awkwardly, but she, bless her heart, understands what you’re trying to get at. “The address is 221b Baker Street, dear. Why, is somebody coming to pick you up?”

The splash of hot tea on your hand forces you to look down. “Oh, God, I - sorry, I’ll clean this up - ”

“Don’t worry about it - here, just leave the pieces to the side of the tray, and I’ll take care of it when you’re done.”

“Thank you.” You’re still far away from the moment as it hits you: this is  _ your _ hand, still stinging in the aftermath of the split tea; that really was  _ Mrs. Hudson _ who just walked out; that was a RP blog for  _ you _ , for a  _ character _ on a  _ TV show,  _ on your phone . 

_ This is crazy. _

Crazy, maybe, but this is no coma dream. This is your new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS remember when I was going to update this soon? Hahahahahaha...yeeeeah, sorry about that. I tried to make this chapter a little longer to compensate. No guarantees as to when the next one will be up, but I have a little over a week of vacation time coming up, and I have a rough draft for the next installment, so keep your eyes open and your fingers crossed! :) As always, comments are the best presents, and I'll try to respond to all comments next time I post.  
> Happy holidays and New Year to all! 
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> DoeEyedDarling


	5. Confessing

See, the problem with your current situation is that there’s no book for you to follow. No rules. Apparently, nobody ever thought to write How to Survive Falling into an Alternate Dimension Where Your Favorite TV Show is Real For Dummies. Which, okay, fine - it can’t be that common a problem. But still, you’d kill to have someone here to show you the ropes.

Luckily for you, your legs seem to be familiar with the terrain, even if you aren’t. Which is how, after climbing out the window in a blind panic, you find yourself standing in front of a sign that says NEW SCOTLAND YARD.

You sit in the waiting room, trying to think of a way to explain your current predicament that won’t make you sound like a crazy person. Of course, you get called up long before you can think of a suitable explanation...but if you actually are in BBC-land, there might be some people here you’re familiar with. “I’d like to speak with Inspector Lestrade, please.”

The receptionist quirks an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Um...no.”

“Have you witnessed a homicide?” You’d thought your biggest obstacle would be figuring out if Lestrade actually existed - you didn’t know you’d have to face the freaking Inquisition to get a meeting with whoever was in charge.

“What? No! No, I - there’s something wrong with my memory, I though - .”

You can’t tell if she’s amused or just unimpressed. “This isn’t a hospital. Next!”

“Wait!” You spit out the first thing you can think of that _might_ get you an audience with Lestrade. “I-I have a message from Sherlock Holmes. He sent me.”

Definitely more amused than unimpressed. “Oh, really?”  
“Yes,” you say, with what you hope is enough conviction to get her to let you in. “Really.”

“Well, then, I can pass the message along, just write it down - ”

“No!” You fight to keep your frustration from getting the better of you. “Listen, if this was a message that could be ‘passed along,’ it would have been sent via text. I need to deliver it in person.” You try to conjure up a few crocodile tears. Thanks to the obscene amounts of stress you’ve been subjected to over the past 12 hours alone, they come pretty easily. “Please. I know, I know your office is busy, but this is important. Please.”

“Hm.” Something in her eyes softens, and you feel a wave of relief crash over you. _It worked_. She hits a button on her telephone. “Hello, sir, you have a visitor? Yes, a girl. Says she’s got a message from Sherlock Holmes.” She listens for a few more seconds, nodding, before returning the phone to its cradle. “Follow me, please.”

The receptionist leads you to a conference room and leaves you there, walking briskly away without any instructions - do you knock? Do you just barge in? You elect for the former, giving a few timid raps to the door, that are answered with a shouted “Come in!”

So you do. And Lestrade is, in fact, in the room. But he’s not alone.

“You?” Sherlock looks as surprised to see you here as you are to see him. You assume he must have told Lestrade to let you in, rather than dismiss you outright, but the whole point of coming here was to try and get some _real_ answers. You make to get the hell out of there, but another ripple of nausea twists through your stomach, and you stumble against the door. At least this time you don’t black out - silver lining, eh?

You take a few deep breaths to try and steady yourself. “I - my name is (Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N). And I’m an American college student, and I’m - I think I have amnesia.”

* * *

 

They run your fingerprints. They search for your face in every database they have access to. They search your name for students enrolled in American universities, and for any records of your parents - nothing.

It would seem that, at least in this universe, you legally do.

not.

exist.

It’s a long day, filled with blood tests and examinations of varying levels of invasiveness. You figure you’ll come back tomorrow, never mind what you’ll do tonight. You just need to spend a night on your own, away from these fictional characters (if they even are real - part of you still isn’t convinced that this isn’t some HUGE prank your friends cooked up), where you can try to make sense of what the frickity frack is going on.

But on your way out, you almost black out again. And in the resulting worry, it somehow comes up that you have no home, no money, no clothes beyond what you’re wearing, and, according to John, what looks to be a pretty bad concussion. Not ER bad, but bad enough that you shouldn’t be spending the night completely alone. So here you are again - back in good ol’ 221B.

You want to kick yourself for not being more excited - this is a dream come true! A fanfiction come to life! The apartment, which you hadn’t gotten to really look at earlier in the day, is larger than life beneath your gaze,  everything from the print of the wallpaper, to the Clue(do) board nailed to the wall (you were tempted to ask, but even considering the possible explanations made your head start up aching again), to the dust motes that danced in the dim apartment lighting.

You fall asleep without really even realizing it. When you wake up, you’re on the couch. You turn left, and find yourself face-to-face again with a pair of ridiculously blue eyes.

Even though you’re beginning to get used to the idea of this-is-real, said eyes’ proximity to where you’re sleeping startles you enough that you roll right off the couch. You whimper, rubbing your shoulder. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Watch people while they’re sleeping?”

“No. But I had some questions to ask you, and Mrs. Hudson insisted it would be rude to wake you.”

You stiffen, and pull back. “Exactly how long have you been sitting in that exact spot?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. “Not important. When you first arrived yesterday, you were coming out of a taxi.” You nod. “Ergo, you must have been coming from somewhere. Do you remember where?”

“I wish I did.” You really, _really_ do. You’re pulling answers out of thin air as it is. It’s only a matter of time before you run out of ideas completely.

“The scan we ran on the license plate number came out completely blank, so it would seem that the taxi was just a front; that would suggest illegal activity, but you lack any tells that would implicate you. Aside from your dizzy spells, however, you’re completely untouched. You look well-rested, and fairly well taken care of; no severe bruising or scarring, save for where you banged your knee against the window frame when you made your escape. No marks around the wrists, so you weren’t physically restrained, and according to your blood test, you’re clean, so _where_ did you come from?”

 _Woah_. Watching his deductions through a TV screen is one thing, but having it done to you? Wild. And you have to admit, part of you is pleased that you’ve stumped him.

You’re not boring to him. Not anymore.


	6. Building

Luckily for you (and most frustratingly for Sherlock), amnesia is a pretty rock-solid alibi. Even he can’t make heads or tails of where you’re supposedly from, and you’re excused from having to make up something on your own. 

_ Un _ luckily for you, though, you’re still stranded, and you can’t leech food off of Sherlock and John forever. Also, you really,  _ really  _ need some new clothes. Over the next week, you find a job at a small jewelry shop down the block. You enroll in a couple of classes at the local community college.  And somehow, every night, you find yourself coming... _ home _ ...to Baker Street.

It makes sense, at first, if only so John can make sure that you aren’t too seriously concussed. Then, it becomes a question of Sherlock not being about to fully  _ solve _ you. But by the tenth night, there’s a desk corner cleared off for you to keep your books, and a cup for your toothbrush on the bathroom sink. By the end of the second week, Ms. Hudson has unlocked the empty room upstairs, and begins discussing rent with you, and you’re beginning to realize that you’ve found a permanent living location for however long until you wake up, or fall back into reality, or whatever.

And so it goes - three weeks, four weeks, a month - settling into a routine. You flip-flop between classes and work, barely even passing the boys - they’re usually out the door by the time you wake up, and asleep by the time you get home. You keep checking your Tumblr, but there’s nothing of note, nothing new - not surprising, considering your minimal interactions with anyone of particular relevance to the plot. 

Until, one day, something odd happens.

* * *

 

You arrive to Ingram Family Jewelers in the morning, ready for a thrilling five hours of selling uber-realistic costume jewelry at uber-outrageous prices. Instead, you’re greeted by the CLOSED sign dangling on the door, the shop dark and uninviting. The door gives way with a light push, though...not locked...

Something’s wrong. 

It’s only a gut instinct, but you’re almost positive. Something has happened - you can sense it in the dim lighting and the dead silence of the place. Your initial guess is robbery, though you’d be surprised if it turned out to be correct - on the very first day, Mr. Ingram had told you that all the really expensive-looking pieces were glass. 

“Mr. Ingram?”

The first (and last time) you’ve ever seen a corpse was at an open casket funeral when you were ten. The body there had been neat; painted, pale, and posed like a ball-jointed doll. Quiet. Mr. Ingram, in contrast, is lying on the ground in a sea of shattered glass, his limbs bloated and bruised and bent at various unnatural angles. You’ve never had a sensitive stomach, but you feel it begin to churn.

Within a few hours, the shop has been warped beyond recognition - cops trailing in and out, yellow tape crisscrossed around the storefront. One of the officers - the same one who talked to you on the phone - offers you a shock blanket, and asks you questions in an excruciatingly patient tone. Her voice grows more and more distant the longer the interrogation goes on, until you’re nodding blankly without any discernible facial reactions to what she says.

“...you again?”

This voice is new. Well, not new to you, but new to this conversation. 

“Sherlock told me you were staying with them, so I s’pose I should have guessed you’d end up in trouble sooner or later.”

You tug the shock blanket closer around you and look up, but relax when you see the speaker. “Detective Lestrade.”

“Detective  _ Inspector _ ,” a deeper voice chimes in. Sherlock and John stroll up to stand behind Lestrade by the shop door, right next to where you’re crouched on the ground giving your statement.

“You - are you a suspect?” John sounds genuinely surprised - you suppose you would be, too, if you thought a girl who’d been living in your flat for a month was a murderer.

“What? No! No, I work here. Worked here.”

“Work or worked?”

“I mean...I’m assuming the store will close after this. Mr. Ingram didn’t have any other employees, so unless his family wants to keep it open…”

“He doesn’t have any family.” Sherlock sounds almost bored. “Estranged or dead, all of them. His daughters are both married, his son is in university, and none of them have bothered to reach out much since the divorce.”

“The divorce?”

He rolls his eyes at Lestrade. “Yes, the divorce. Did you really not know about it? You’ve had the case for at least a half hour.”

“I...well…”

“I’m assuming also slipped your notice that the man was a rather unsavory figure. Lecherous. He had a tendency to rub people the wrong way, meaning the list of possible killers isn’t exactly small.”

Lestrade cuts him off. “I’m sorry,  _ how  _ do you know all this?”

Sherlock tilts his head, squinting at the other man slightly. “Incredible.” With that, he pushes through into the shop, flicking his coat like a cape behind him. 

“So…” You clear your throat uncomfortably. “He’s always like that, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings!
> 
> I've missed you! AP review season is in full swing, so writing might be hard in the next couple of weeks...but on the bright side, I got into my dream school! Finances aside (WHYYY is college so expensive?), I am over the moon and still in disbelief, tbh. I also was lucky enough to get into a (less prestigious but still very nice) school with a full-tuition scholarship that location-wise is even a little better than my top choice...any thoughts? Decision day is May 1st, so if anyone has any advice or personal experiences they'd like to share, it would be so so SO appreciated, because I'm really torn.
> 
> Thank you guys again for all the love and support you've shown for this story, it really means the world to me. You guys mean the world to me. The AO3 community is a wonderful place, but it can be a little intimidating at times, and you have all been so warm and welcoming, and I am eternally grateful for that. :)
> 
> On the topic of the story, next chapter is already in the works, hopefully lots of fun stuff coming your way! Any requests for one-shots, etc, let me know! 
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> DoeEyedDarling


	7. Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, short chapter in which the reader receives some unpleasant news.

“You want the good news first, then?”

You look up from your notes, but Sherlock is already behind you in the kitchen, fiddling about with one contraption or another. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Bad news it is. You’re the prime suspect in the Ingram murder. Congratulations.”

“I’m sorry,  _ what? _ ”

“The good news is that you’re innocent.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Saying it out loud is...a lot less satisfying than you would have imagined, to be honest. “But still - what?”

“The man didn’t have many friends, but not as many enemies as I’d thought - he was more of a loner overall,  _ but _ he did make an unwanted advance towards you when you first applied, or sometime soon after. I’m assuming you stayed anyway for the money - silly, really, you could have just asked John or I for help, or else found another job - ”

“How do you - and sure, what other entry-level job do you think I could have found for that much?”

“Fair enough. There’s also money missing from the safe, but no signs of forced entry, and you were the only one besides Ingram who had the combination.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because Lestrade is on his way with a warrant for your arrest, and I thought I’d give you some advance notice.”

You stand up at that, letting the notebook fall. “Hang on,  _ what?” _

“You’re about to be arrested for murder in the first degree.”

“So I gathered, what I don’t understand is  _ why you didn’t lead with that. _ ”

“You know now. Hardly makes a difference.”

“I - can’t you do anything about it? You said you know I’m innocent, so you must have some proof. And Lestrade trusts you with his life - ”

“It’s a witch hunt. Scotland Yard has to take someone into custody if they’re to perpetuate their image as not-entirely-incompetent investigators.”

You stare at him. “So you’re just going to let him take me, then.”

“Of course not.” He sips something from a mug, then discards the whole thing in the sink. “I’m going to solve the case. Be on your best behavior in prison, and as soon as we figure out who the real killer is, we can bail you out.”

“Let me help you!”

He scoffs. “You?”

“You bring John along on cases all the time.”

“John is an army doctor. You’re an eighteen-year-old amnesiac.”

“I can still help!” You rack your brain for ideas. “Um...I can...I can…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Before you can move out of reach, he grabs your wrist and starts pulling you away from the window. You open your mouth to protest, but he, as though sensing it, preemptively cuts you off. “Unless you want to be arrested, I suggest you get in the closet and stay quiet. Or don’t. It’s your choice, but considering Lestrade is about to knock on the door sometime in the next fifteen seconds, choose quickly.”

And with that, he shuts the closet door in your face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the love and comments! Finally committed to college, APs start this week, and overall I'm just in a good mood, so here's a little something to hold you over until the next (longer) update.
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, and the like can go below. Love you!
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> DoeEyedDarling


	8. Stopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and our lovely Reader go clue-hunting!

Your relief is strong, but quickly dissipates as you realize the consequences of what you’ve just done. You’re on the run from the law. Can you even show up to class anymore? How are you ever going to get another job? Will this go on your record? By the time Lestrade is gone and Sherlock has flung the closet door back open, you’ve overthought the situation almost to the point of tears. 

He seems even more irate than before. “What is it now?”

You choke back a sob, feeling more than a little silly. But after eighteen years of public school college prep, the fear of failure - failure of any kind - has been so deeply ingrained that the panic is automatic. “I - I…”

“This is ridiculous. Do you want to clear your name?” You blink tears out of your eyes and nod, sniffling. “Get up, then. Lots to do in very little time.”

“O-okay.” You brushed the closet-dust off your clothes and grabbed a tissue off the desk, watching as he scurried about the apartment. “Where are we going?” 

“Jewelry shop.”

“But… we were already there. Not even a week ago.”

“The last time you were there you had just seen a dead body for what I’m assuming was the first time. Better get used to that, by the way, if you’re going to make a habit of this.”

“This?”

“Coming along on cases. I need an assistant, you need a job, and John isn’t always here when it’s convenient.”

“So...you’re hiring me, then?”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

 

You leave the apartment and immediately feel on edge, though there isn’t a cop in sight. Sherlock locks the door and turns to look at you. He makes a face, giving you a proper once-over. “You couldn’t have worn something less...obvious?”

You look down at your outfit and feel yourself blush. The black leggings are fine, but the sweater is a startling pumpkin orange that couldn’t be less inconspicuous if it tried. “I just...like bright colors, I guess. I’m sorry. I can go back and change, if you - ” 

“Too late now. Here.” 

A moment later, he tosses you a black pile of fabric. Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade when you realize what it is. “Y-your coat?”

“Yes.”

“Y-you want me to - to  _ wear _ it?”

He heaves a sigh. “That was the idea. Quickly, please, before someone arrests you for impersonating a traffic cone.”

Ignoring the jab, you tug the coat on and follow him down the street, the too-long sleeves turning your hands into paws. It’s thick and warm against the weather, and it smells nice. Really,  _ really _ nice. Spicy, and clean, and a bunch of other things you aren’t sure how to describe beyond  _ wow. _ You tug the opening shut and cross your arms, guarding yourself against the cold.

_ He _ seems completely unbothered by the nippy weather, leading you down a couple of back alleys that you’ve  _ definitely _ never seen before, finally stopping in front of a somewhat familiar door.

“Ingram’s?”

“Back entrance.”

The shop is dustier than you remember it. Emptier. The shattered glass has been mostly been swept up, but the jewelry cases still have jagged edges where they were smashed initially, and the soft lighting and old police tape lends the place an abandoned feel. You pass him back his coat and shudder, watching a spider skitter across the nearest countertop.

“Divide and conquer?” Sherlock turns to you with one eyebrow raised, and you’re not sure what you said wrong. “I mean, we’ll get it done faster that way, right?”  He shrugs his agreement, and takes off into the rest of the shop. You take that as a cue to turn the corner, pushing into the one area of the store you’ve never entered before. 

Ingram’s office is tiny, and even darker than the rest of the place. A draft from the vent above blows the door shut behind you, which you really aren’t a fan of, but you force yourself to take another step forward, turning on your phone flashlight. 

_ Squeak. _

You stop dead in your tracks at the sound, letting out an audible gasp...until you realize that it was just the result of you stepping on a loose floorboard, which shifts as you step off it.  _ Huh? _

“Sherlock?” You gingerly pry up the piece of wood, and kick aside some dirt to uncover a bundle of folded up papers. “Sherlock!”

Suddenly, you’re bathed in darkness, with the tiniest bit of light shining under the crack between the door and the floor. You press the home button on your phone frantically, but it’s dead.  _ Breathe. You can’t be more than a foot away from the door. _ Clutching the papers to your chest, you reach out for the doorknob, but before you touch it, you hear a bump on the other side.

Sherlock’s voice is muffled through the door, but his words are clear enough: “It’s locked.” 

When you finally make contact with the doorknob, it’s smooth - there’s no space for a key, no locking mechanism to be found. “That’s not possible.”

“Jammed, then.” There’s a louder bang, and you flinch, but nothing happens. You’re still here, alone in the dark. “Really jammed.”

_ You’ve got to be kidding me. _ You pull on the door desperately, throwing your weight backwards, but it doesn’t budge. “Sherlock, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking, this - ” He grunts, and you assume he’s trying to push the door open. “What do you see in there?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing, my flashlight died.”

You don’t need to be on the other side of the door to know he’s rolling his eyes.  _ God, this is humiliating _ . “And you’re positive there’s no key?”

“There’s no keyhole, let alone a key. I’m not an idiot, you know.” You feel a chill on your ankles, and stifle a scream.  _ Not a bug, it’s not a bug, it’s just...a gust of air… _ “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Wait there, okay?” You aren’t sure where this new brave, take-charge persona has come from, but it’s better than the panic of a few moments before. “And then I’m going to try something.” Without waiting for his response, you turn around and stretch one arm out in front of you, crawling in the direction of the cold air. The grate of the air vent is cold, but loose, and you feel around for the screws. You bend the papers in half and run the back of your fingernails over the crease to sharpen it. 

_ This is either crazy, or the best damn idea I’ve ever had. _

Maybe it’s because you’re living in a TV show. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline of being in a dark room without a way out. But somehow, you’re able to use the thick folded edge of the papers to unscrew the loose screws on all four corners, and you lift the grate off the wall.  _ Yes! I did it! Not really sure how that worked, but I did it! _

You hiss in pain as you put the grate down somewhere to your left, and you can’t see your forefinger, but you’re assuming if you could, it would be bleeding. That’s a later problem, though. Right now, you’re trying to work up the courage to climb into the vent. 

It’s big enough. You can feel that as you scope out the opening with your hands. But you aren’t really too fond of the idea. 

“Hello?” you call out.

“Yes, I’m still here,” you hear from the hallway outside. 

“Not you.  _ Hello? _ ”

“ _ What _ are you doing?”

“Where does this air vent go?”

“There shouldn’t be a vent there, it’s not in the design plan.”

You feel your blood go cold.  _ Great, now I  _ totally _ want to go in there. _ “Well, it’s here.”

“Do not go in.”

“It’s hella creepy in here, I’m pretty sure that door isn’t opening any time soon, and you can’t call Lestrade to open it because you legally aren't supposed to know where I cam.”

“(Y/N), stay where you are.”

Any reservations you’d had before are shattered by your desire to prove him wrong. “I’m going in.”

“(Y/N) -  ”

You ignore him, taking a deep breath before crawling into the vent - arms and head, then legs, the papers still in one hand.

* * *

 

You’re relieved to make it the first few feet without running into a cobweb or a cockroach. You lead with your hands, wishing you hadn’t given Sherlock his coat back as the skin of your stomach slides against the ice-cold metal. When you hit a wall, you feel your way around the corner.

_ Light! _

It’s not much, but it’s there. You’re moving more quickly than before, even within the tight constraints of the vent, motivated by the possibility of freedom. The air is getting colder, and you’re relieved to see that there’s no grate on the other end -  _ weird _ .

You crawl out onto a dirt floor -  _ ugh _ \- and blink a few times as you try to accustom yourself to the new lighting. You stand up and freeze.

You’re in...some kind of basement, maybe? The walls are stone, with a ladder leading to what you assume is a trapdoor into the upper level, and the room is bare, except for a table in the middle. You feel a chill run down your spine as you approach it. It’s dirty and dilapidated, with ropes hanging from each corner, and an equally worn book lying on the ground nearby. 

Against your better judgement, you pick it up and flip open the tattered cover.

 

  * __KT191623__


  * _EB181567_


  * _ED201726_



 

It goes on for pages and pages in exactly that format, and while you can’t decipher the contents, you recognize the handwriting from the few paychecks you received before - well, before. 

As far as you can see beyond that, though, the room is empty, and to be honest, it’s starting to give you the creeps. You tuck the papers into the journal, and climb the ladder, hoping you won’t have to brave the vent a second time.

Lifting the trapdoor takes a little effort - there’s something on top, dirt or sod or something - but it opens! Yay! Your surroundings look familiar, and you realize you’re behind the shop again. The mat set in front of the door for people to wipe their feet on and whatnot has slid off the trapdoor and to the side - had you not gone through the vents and come out this way, you would never have known this place existed. You close the trapdoor carefully, and drag the mat back over it. Just in case.

You realize, as you push open the back door to reenter, that your hands are shaking. Sherlock turns on you, and his eyes widen slightly for a moment in worry - no, you must be imagining things. He does take in your appearance, though, from the dust in your hair to the book you’re holding to your heart. 

“You’re alive.” 

He says it so nonchalantly, so calm. You aren’t sure if he’s joking or not.

_ Let’s go with “not.”  _ “Glad to see you were concerned,” you respond dryly. “I found something, if you’re interested.” You offer him the journal. He eyes it for a moment before accepting it; you wonder what he must have deduced about it just from that first glance.

“You found these together?”

“Papers were in his office, but it looks like they're just some old electricity bills. There’s a trapdoor under the back door welcome mat, leads to a weird basement thing. That’s where the air vent led to, and it’s where I found the book.”

He snaps the book shut. “I thought this went without saying, but apparently it flew right over your dull little brain, so allow me to clarify: you don’t make the rules. If we’re going to work together, you do as I say.”

“And not as you do?” 

“Until you learn how to calculate risks, there’s no point in you taking them.”

“You calling me naive?”

“Ah, sooner or later I knew you’d get it.”

Something inside of you snaps. “Heads up: I'm not dumb, I'm not weak, and I'm sure as hell not going to stand back and let you insult me.” You give him half a second before pressing on. “If your idea of ‘helping me’ is belittling me every chance you get, you might as well text Lestrade now and turn me in, because I'm over it. If we're going to work together, I will listen to what you say, but you are not going to treat me as some kind of inferior being, because that isn't going to fly with me. Capisce?”  _Wow. Not sure where that burst of fire came from, but I'll take it._

His eyebrows furrow, and you groan internally.  _ Ugh, he’s such a robot, he probably won’t even get what I'm saying. _ In spite of being a robot, though, he does have such expressive eyes - bright, and blue, and so  _ alive _ , you -

_ No, nope, nuh-uh. I'm mad at him, right? No rhapsodizing about his eyes...no matter how dreamy they may or may not be, _

But instead of staring at you, or coming back with a smart retort, he...nods? “Noted.” He must notice your surprise, because his expression shifts from confused to amused. “What?”

You struggle to find the right words. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” _That...came out wrong._ You giggle, trying to lighten the mood. “You should watch out for that, Mister. Don’t want me to get the idea that you might be…" You glance to the side, and whisper dramatically, "...y’know.”

Now  _ he _ quirks an eyebrow up. “Might be what?”

You're halfway out the door, but you stop to glance back at him, unable to suppress a smirk. “Human.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than I'd anticipated, but whatever, I had fun writing it and most of these chapters have been pretty short so hopefully this compensates! 
> 
> Trying to keep Sherlock in character is sooo harddd, so if I'm failing, let me know and I'll try a new angle. 
> 
> Thank you commenters, kudo-ers, readers, all of you. :) Comments, questions, concerns can all go below, and I'll see you in the next update. Love you!
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> DoeEyedDarling


	9. Trusting

_God, my Tumblr inbox must be overflowing_.

Now that you’re actually interacting with Sherlock - hell, you’re the center of this whole mystery - you imagine you’re getting a little more “screen time,” as it were. _I mean, I wish it were under better circumstances..._ but you’re enjoying the overall experience a lot more now that Sherlock is actually speaking to you as though you’re an equal.

Well, not exactly an equal, but at least not like you’re some kind of imbecile.

You have his coat back, and you’re liking it a lot more than you want to admit. And it smells really nice, and it’s _his_ , and you have to fight back a blush as you glance up at him. You’ve been trying for the past few weeks to push back any feelings you may or may not have been harboring, but now the two of you are actually _talking_ and _doing stuff together_ , and it’s making it a lot more difficult.

But you know it’s nonsensical to even consider. It’s just a nice daydream to have, and you’ll leave it at that - a daydream, a harmless schoolgirl crush - and try to focus on the adventure you’re currently having.

Then you remember that this “adventure” involves being accused of murder, and your enthusiasm dims juuuuust a bit.

And Ingram’s home, even after several hours of thorough combing, is a bust. Empty, all the way through - at the moment, your best lead is the evidence found in the jewelry shop basement, and you have very little desire - none, actually - to return there anytime soon. Besides, by the time you leave the empty, yet cramped, apartment behind, the sky has completely darkened, and you’re exhausted to the point of dizziness (the normal kind, not the weird head-injury-induced kind). Though you don’t really notice the latter until, walking down the street, you begin walking crookedly, your steps angling right until you bump right into Sherlock. You pull back, mumbling an apology.

To your surprise, instead of shooting you a look or a snide comment, he chuckles, amused rather than annoyed. “Tired?”

You rub one eye blearily. “Yeah, just a bit.”

How you make it up the stairs and into the apartment is anyone’s guess - you vaguely notice that he lets you lean on him for support. Or maybe you’re just hallucinating. Stranger things have happened, you suppose. You stumble into the living room, plop down into the first seat you encounter, and are out like a light before your head even hits the cushioned arm.

* * *

 

You wake up to light streaming through the living room windows, feeling warmer and better rested than you have in weeks. _Wait...the living room?_

When you try to get up, you have some difficulty maneuvering yourself into a sitting position, and it’s only after several frustrating moments of squirming that you realize why: for starters, you’re in a chair, not the couch - _whose brilliant idea was that?_ \- and secondly, you’re almost drowning in some kind of robe - no, a coat -

Not _a_ coat. _His_ coat. And _his_ chair.

_How the hell did that happen?_

“Morning.”

You flinch at the sudden breaking of the silence, and look over to see _him_ in the kitchen, making coffee. You think. It could be anything, really -

“Slept well, I see.”

Oh, God, his morning voice is so low, and buttery, and _unf_ \- heat pools in your lower abdomen. But it’s also dry and toneless, and you don’t know if that’s the lack of caffeine, or if he’s mad about the chair/coat/you, or -

Your stomach growls. 

_God, when was the last time I ate? Yesterday morning?_

He chuckles, ending the awkwardness. “Hungry?”

For the first time, you manage to find some words. “Starving.” Well, at least _a_ word.

“Better get dressed, then. You can stop and pick up something on our way back to the shop.”

You groan. “We were just there yesterday.”

“I want to see the area under the shop. You may have missed something.”

“Why do you assume - ” Actually, he’s probably right, considering you were there for all of two minutes. Besides, this is Sherlock freaking Holmes you’re talking to. If there’s anyone who could come up with new evidence out of seeming thin air, it’s him. “Fair enough. Gimme ten minutes?”

“I’ll be out the door in five.”

You roll your eyes, but reluctantly pull yourself up, discarding the coat on the chair as you go. _Impatient, impatient._ You bite your tongue, though. No need to waste the _five minutes_ you have to get ready - _four minutes and thirty seconds,_ now - on a battle you know you’ll never win.


	10. Learning

“He was keeping someone here.” 

You can hardly believe the words coming out of your mouth as you circle the table, back in the secret basement of the jewelry shop. Even proper lighting - that is, smartphone flashlights - doesn’t lessen the creepiness of the place. If anything, the newly harshened shadows that hang under the table, the vent, Sherlock’s cheekbones, and just about everything else, only make you flinch that much more every time you think you see something move out of the corner of your eyes. 

But the bright lights do give you an advantage in one thing: the search for details. The ropes on the tables, which your eyes had scarcely run over the last time you were here, now jump out like a smoking gun - they’re still old and worn, but you’re beginning to realize that the dark, powdery stains on the frayed ends are too red to be mud from the surrounding earth. “Ropes around their wrists and ankles. There’s dried blood, here, where they rubbed themselves raw trying to escape - more brown than red by now, but still. And the vent was open - they could have crawled through and killed him. That would explain why there were no signs of breaking and entering.”

“Hm.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but you said he was, um, lecherous, yes? It’s possible. Maybe those initials are - are people he kidnapped.” You feel sick to your stomach at the thought of how many entries there were. “I don’t know where the rest of them are, but maybe if the police dig around his property - ”

“You’re right.”

“I - ” You pause, certain you must have misheard. “Sorry?”

“The book. The code.” He’s flipped open to the last page with writing on it. “Your initials, 18, height in centimeters.”

“I…” Your blood runs cold. “But he didn’t kidnap me. That doesn’t make sense, it must be something else.” You want it to be something else, you  _ need  _ it to be something else.  _ I haven’t been in this universe nearly long enough to start attracting serial killers, please and thanks. _

“He may have been planning to. You’re missing a few numbers at the end of your entry, here, as is the entry before yours. They could have been dates, times, coordinates of capture, duration of capture - anything.”

You read over his shoulder, not sure if you want to vomit or do a victory dance. Maybe both.  _ How did I miss that?  _ “We still don’t know who killed him, though.”

“The previous entry lists a TH -

“ - 20 years old, 168 centimeters,” you read aloud.  _ But how are we going to find...wait. _ “His office was pretty empty. Did Scotland Yard take his employee records?”

* * *

 

**_Anonymous said:_ **

**_LOL, they made (Y/N)'s first case_ way _too easy. No point in giving Sherlock a new companion if they have to dumb down cases to make her look smart..._**

 

**_221b-for-me said:_ **

**_First commercial break on my streamer! The pacing of the first episode seems a little rushed so far, but we still have at least three-quarters left to go - I'm guessing this is just to establish (Y/N)'s character so far? Looking forward to some more difficult mysteries (and some more relationship development?) as the episode and series progress_   
**

 

**_anonymous said:_ **

**_good job so far, (y/n)!! will keep comenting as the episode goes on but so far its living up to my expectations!!_ **

* * *

 

Even after Tiffany Smalls has been found, confessed, and gone to trial (you’re hoping they don’t sentence her too harshly. She was kidnapped by her employer, after all), you’re a little nervous about resuming normal life. And after the hell of searching for a way out of that godforsaken office, you’re not sure if you ever want to step foot on another crime scene again. Or even step foot  _ outside _ \- seriously, what were the odds that the very first job you applied for would be run by a psychopathic creep?

So you take it slow. You start going back to class. After a while, you’re able to fall asleep without having nightmares about Ingram’s “murder basement” (as you’ve termed it in your head). And one day, Sherlock grabs you by the arm as you’re heading into the apartment and drags you into a cab with him and John, the latter explaining the newest crime as you head on over to the scene, and so begins a semi-regular addition to your attempts at maintaining a normal routine.

* * *

 

“Hi, Mrs. Bronte?” You make your voice soft and your eyes even softer as you approach the grieving mother. “I’m one of Tabitha’s friends, from uni. I’m so, so sorry to hear about this.” You still haven’t figured out how Sherlock can fake tears so easily, but until then, you’ve found that puppy-dog eyes have a similar enough effect.

“Friends? Tabby...Tabby never really…”

You let your face fall slightly. “Oh. She always talked about what a great relationship she had with you, I just assumed she’d mentioned me.”

She snorts, looking suspicious. “Great relationship? I was lucky if I could get two words out of her before she left the flat in the morning.”

“Yeah, she could be a little short-tempered sometimes. But that was one of the things we loved about her.”

“We?”

“Friends.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was, again?”

You glance behind her at Sherlock, and he gives you a nod. You’ve only distracted her for a minute, and gained precious little useful info in the process, but apparently  _ he’s _ seen enough. “I have to go to class, but thank you for talking with me, and for giving us Tabby. We’ll see you at the service.” You flash her a sympathetic smile and squeeze her hand one last time before walking briskly away. “She definitely had crazy eyes,” you mutter to Sherlock, “but do you really think she’d kill her own daughter?”

“I don’t think, I know. Calluses on her hands indicate she was a gardener, and the tox screen on Tabitha Bronte’s body should show traces of the same oleander growing along the fence.”

“And  _ that’s _ why the neighbor’s dog died a week earlier,” John says, reaching the realization at the same time you do.

“Obviously.”

* * *

 

“What do you think?”

“Hm?” You straighten up so quickly, you bump your head on the cabinet above you. “Sorry! Sorry.” You realize you’re apologizing to an inanimate object, but can’t keep from mumbling it one more time, for good measure. “Sorry.”

He passes something to you. “Here.” It’s a ring of keys, belonging to the missing janitor you’re currently looking for.

_ Not this again. _ Sherlock’s gotten into the habit of throwing things at you and John and waiting for you to “deduce them.” You don’t really know why he bothers, but you comply, turning it over in your hands frantically, trying to find something - anything. “So we’ve got front door, back door, skeleton key for the whole school...home key?” You wait for a nod of confirmation before continuing. “Huh...this is weird.”

“What?”

“The lanyard. He didn’t have any kids, yeah? What’s up with the college gear?” You rub your thumb over the logo, noticing something else. “And there’s a key missing. All of these are at least a couple of decades old, including the ring itself, but it’s slightly bent and there’s a scratch here through the rust - whoever stole it did a sloppy job.” You look up, expecting Sherlock to make fun of how little you came up with, but he looks...surprised? “Did I get it?”

“Let me see.” You toss the keyring back to him, trying to hide a smirk.  _ Did I notice something more than the great Sherlock Holmes? _ You never thought you’d live to see the day. You hip-check him on your way out of the room, not bothering to hide your giddiness. “Don’t worry, Sherl. You’ll get the next one.”

* * *

 

None of the cases come as easily as the Ingram one - beginner’s luck, you figure. But while you don’t have Sherlock’s genius or John’s extensive medical knowledge, you seem to have a knack for getting people to talk, and it’s a lot more exciting than any temp job you could have found, and  _ I guess this is my life now? _

_ Nice. _


	11. Embarassing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you're called to help Sherlock and John on yet another case...but not quite the way you'd expected.

“You guys do realize that if I want to graduate some time in the next century, I have to go to at least  _ some _ of my classes, right?” you grumble as you climb into the cab. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve been pulled out of a lecture on some bullshit excuse or the other - in the last month alone, your cousin needed to be picked up from rehab, your dog came down with a nasty stomach virus, and your grandmother died three (no, four) times. You’re wondering how much longer you can get away with it before your professors begin to question your dedication to your studies. “Where are we going, anyway?”

Sherlock passes you his phone, on which is displayed a website of a rather...suggestive nature. You lock the phone immediately in surprise as he begins to explain. “Irene Adler. Professional dominatrix with a knack for scandal. Apparently, she recently informed the royal family that she had photographs of herself and someone of importance in…”

“Compromising positions?” you squeak. He nods. “What someone?”

“We don’t know,” John answers. “But that’s where we’re headed.”

“What - to her, um, workplace?”

“Her apartment.”

Something still isn’t sitting right. “And you need me...why?” As much as you enjoy being on the team, reclaiming a couple of blackmail pics doesn’t really strike you as being a three-person job.

“We’ve been told that the somebody she’s attempting to blackmail is a ‘young female person.’ ” Sherlock takes his phone back, scrolling through some unseen images on the screen. “It’s a vague description, but one that you fit rather well, don’t you think?”

And just like that, the whole thing clicks. “Woah, woah, woah - I’m your  _ bait _ ?”

“Correct.” 

_ He _ stays infuriatingly poker-faced during this whole exchange.  _ You _ don’t even try to hide your annoyance. “Sherlock, I left a mandatory seminar for this.”

“Obviously not mandatory, if they let you go. Here, please.”

You’re still flustered as the three of you get out of the cab in the middle of an empty cul-de-sac. John pays the driver, and then turns back to Sherlock. “Are we here?”

“Two streets away, but this’ll do.”

“For what?”

He nods at you. “There are clothes in your school bag. Run into that shop and change into them.”

“What?” You don’t remember him touching your bag in the cab, but sure enough, you unzip it to find clothes folded neatly on top. You roll your eyes. “Fine.”

On your way across the street, you hear him say something to John that sounds like “Punch me in the face.” 

_ Nah, I must have misheard... _

* * *

 

You return five minutes later, ready to murder Sherlock and/or change back. “You have  _ got _ to be kidding me.”

You unpacked your bag in the cramped, dirty shop restroom to find only a short, dusky pink shift dress (more of a shirt than a dress, really) and black over-the-knee socks. No tights, no shorts, just shirt and socks. Against your better judgement, you changed anyway - maybe because you’re a masochist, maybe because you can’t get rid of this godforsaken crush you have on him - but already you’re feeling exposed, and judging by the look you got from the cashier as you left, and the way John looks  uncomfortably away even now, the outfit is having the intended effect.

“Do I really have to - oh my God, is your cheek bleeding?”

He ignores your question. “We are going to go to the apartment and you’re going to go in requesting an...appointment.”

You’re eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“From what I understand, those who are sexually dominant are naturally attracted towards those who are sexually submissive, hence the outfit.”

You cock your head at him, eyebrows raised. “You want me to put my hair in pigtails, while we’re at it? Suck on a lollipop? Change my name to Lolita?”

He purses his lips, seriously considering it. “I don’t have any candy on me, and the name might be a bit much...but the hair might work.”

_ Oh, for Pete’s sake. _ You roll your eyes, but bend over to collect your hair into two low ponytails, one on either side of your head. “Good?”

“Good enough. Once you’re in, I’m going to ring the bell and pretend I’ve been attacked, ask to use the phone. While John and I distract her, you’ll have a chance to explore the apartment for the photos. Look for a folder, a flash drive, a laptop, anything.”

“And if I get caught?” You hold up a hand to stop his response. “I know, I know.  _ Don’t _ .” You sigh and start walking, shoving your school bag against his chest as you pass. “Let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! This chapter hasn't been proofread yet, so forgive me if there are any typos. I'm driving up for my college move-in day tomorrow, so I just wanted to give you guys another update before I have to settle in to college and select my courses and such :) I love you guys so, so much. I'll respond to the previous chapter's comments as soon as I'm done posting this, but for now, thank you for the amazing support and I'll see you in the next update!
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> DoeEyedDarling


	12. No, scratch that - humiliating

Sherlock and John wait around the corner, forcing you to ascend the stairs and ring the doorbell by yourself. You smooth down the dress nervously, wishing you’d refused to change - or that Sherlock had packed you less revealing clothes. Actually, now that you think of it, these are _your_ _clothes_ \- since when did Sherlock ever go into your room?

Before you can examine the question more thoroughly, the intercom by the door buzzes. “Yes?”

“Hi.” You feel like a five-year-old, and it’s coming through in your voice. “Um, hello, I - I’m here to see Ms. Adler?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

You shake your head, unsure if whoever’s on the other side can even see you. “No, but I was hoping to make one.”

There’s a moment of silence as the speaker considers your response, but then the door swings open, revealing a tall, slim redhead. She smiles at you. “Come in.” You follow her to the sitting room. “Ms. Adler is expecting visitors, but I expect she’ll be able to spare a few minutes for you.”

 _Ok, so_ she’s _not Irene Adler._ You wish you’d paid more attention to the website so that you’d have some idea of what she looks like. “Thank you,” you call out as she walks away, leaving you alone. You feel even more out-of-place here, even younger and greener than before in the context of the sleek white walls and furniture.

The bell buzzes again, and you hear the clacking of heels on the floor - the woman from before returning to see who it is. You can’t make out exactly what she’s saying, but you hear a low baritone respond, and you know you’ve been saved.

* * *

 

“You aren’t going to give her any more time?” John points out.

Sherlock ignores him. The truth is, John is right - (Y/N) hasn’t even been in there five minutes. But something about this Adler woman makes him nervous. Not for himself, but...for her. The girl. (Y/N).

He worries, even though he knows he shouldn’t. She’s smart, and sharp, and surprisingly resourceful. She has opened up and become a permanent part of the 221B ecosystem, singing in the shower and cooking pancakes on the weekends and littering the flat with bright pink flash cards and electric blue Post-Its. She spot-checks John before he goes out on dates, and stays up too late to finish her readings for class, and some mornings Sherlock will find her asleep in the living room, curled up in his chair - which should bother him. It does bother him. Just a little. But not in the way he expects.

She always looks so peaceful, so oddly fragile and not at all out-of-place. She’ll shift slightly, rubbing her cheek against the textbook she fell asleep on top of, and there’s something almost sweet about the way she snores, and in the end, it’s just easier to hide out in his room. Leave the apartment altogether. Pretend not to notice.

But (Y/N) - bright, bouncy (Y/N), with her American-isms and her spontaneity and her transition from shyest person he’s ever met to... _least_ shy person he’s ever met - she’s almost too sweet. A little naive, maybe. It’s bound to get her into trouble, and he immediately regrets sending her in to meet Irene Adler alone, and so what if this is sabotaging the investigation?

He has to rescue her.

* * *

 

You sulk next to Sherlock on the couch as you wait for John to distract the maid enough for you to make your move. “Y’know, it’s the end of November, in England, she doesn’t have the heat on, and out of everything I have in my closet, you had to go with _this_.” You try to tug down the hem of the dress again; it springs back up to its original position a quarter of the way down your thigh, proving your point.

“I don’t recall you ever wearing it, or the socks. You should thank me, really.”

“I never would have worn them _together_ . This is the kind of thing you wear with leggings or jeans, not _thigh highs_.”

“Bait.” You shoot him a glare, but he just sighs and rolls his eyes at you. “What are you waiting for? Go!” he hisses.

“Sorry to hear that you’ve been hurt." The sharp, silky voice is accompanied by the click of heels, both growing closer. "I don’t think Kate caught your names.” You hear the wearer of the shoes cross the doorway to the room.  _Well, too late to go hunting now, I guess._

“Sorry, we’re…” You look up, and immediately do your best to fix your eyes on her face or her hair or the walls behind her, because this Adler woman isn’t wearing a damn thing.

And she’s so pretty, too, even prettier than you’d expected - a savage, ruthless kind of beauty. Even in Louboutins and nothing else, the way she carries herself alone is enough to make you feel as though you’re the one who’s naked.

She clicks her tongue against her teeth in a noise of pity.  “Aw, it’s always hard to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright, isn’t it?” She crosses the room effortlessly, not once looking even the slightest bit self-conscious, and comes to a stop in front of the two of you. She leans forward and plucks Sherlock’s vicar collar right off of his shirt. “There. Now we’re both defrocked…”  She smirks at it before returning her gaze to him. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

He doesn’t betray a hint of emotion, stoic as ever. “Miss Adler, I presume.”

“And I see you brought a friend.” She gently strokes your hair and cheek with one red-tipped finger, and you can’t help but flinch in response. “Miss (L/N), is it?”

You bring your head down so that you’re staring directly into your own lap - easier than trying to look only at her eyes, at any rate. “Um, yes. (Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N).”

“Oh, am I making you uncomfortable? And here I thought you’d gotten all dressed up just for me.” You can hear the smile in her voice. “And you, Mr. Holmes...just look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?”

You look up in shock - you’ve never seen anyone try to flirt with Sherlock before. Not like this. “You - ”

“And maybe a gag for little Miss (Y/N)? Or ropes, perhaps - she’d look so pretty all tied up, don’t you think?” She pushes the vicar collar towards your mouth. “Open.” Without really thinking, you bite down on it. “Obedient, too. I can see why you keep her around.”

Just as she finishes speaking, John enters the room with a small washcloth and a bowl of warm water, looking down to avoid spilling it. “Right, this should do it…” Upon looking up, he doesn’t seem quite sure what to do with his eyes. His gaze jumps from Adler, to Sherlock, to the collar between your teeth, to the bowl, then back to you and Sherlock. “I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

“Please, sit down.” She follows her own instruction, curling up in an armchair on the opposite side of the room. “If you’d like some tea, I could call the maid.”

“I already had tea at the Palace,” Sherlock answers stiffly.

She smiles - at you. “I know.”

And with those two words, you know for certain what your instincts has been screaming at you since she entered the room - this Adler woman is not someone to be trifled with, and the three of you have walked straight into her web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! Long time no talk :) College thus far has been absolutely wonderful. I was terrified to go, but it is honestly the best thing that's ever happened to me. To all my high school readers currently in the midst of (or anticipating) college application hell - IT GETS BETTER, I promise! 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the new chapter! (In case you couldn't tell, I completely and unashamedly adore Irene Adler with all of my heart, and Scandal In Belgravia is, hands down, my favorite episode. Also, a lot of my favorite moments in this story are rapidly approaching, so I'm SUPER excited about that).
> 
> Any comments, questions, etc, put 'em in the comment box, I'll respond to last chapter's comments in...like...10 minutes...and I'll see you all on the flip side! Lots of love <3
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> DoeEyedDarling


	13. Panicking

Sherlock looks back and forth between Irene and you, Irene and John, and though you can’t tell exactly what it is he’s thinking, you’re concerned at how confused he looks. Even more odd is that he hasn’t...y’know. Done the deducing thing.

She’s sitting. The Woman. Irene. Still stunning, still intimidating, still naked as the day she was born (ignoring the shoes, of course).

Still staring you down. Or maybe sizing you up. It doesn’t feel like she sees you as an enemy, though, so much as...dessert. Uncomfortable as you are, you have to admit that Sherlock’s “bait” theory is actually working in practice. Or it would be, anyway, if you had the faintest idea of how to use her attention to your advantage.

_Submissive, submissive, that’s what Sherlock had said, right? Sure, I can do that. I think. I - yeah, okay._

You break eye contact, partly as part of the act, but mostly because your cheeks are warm and your pulse is racing and you can still feel her gaze on you as the silence continues and your thoughts are so loud and so scattered all at once, and if only someone would say something -

“I had tea at the palace, too.” God bless John Watson. “If anyone’s interested.”

“I know that, too. But Miss (Y/N) was still in class then, I believe. I would be a terrible hostess if I were to let one of my guests go unsatisfied, hm?” God, is _everything_ that comes out of this woman’s mouth a double entendre? “We have other options, as well, if you have a particular craving...”

“I - no,” you blurt out, crossing your legs more tightly than before. "I mean, I'm fine, thanks.” You hear Sherlock snort next to you, and you purse your lips, wishing you could give him a look or a slap or something. _Of course he finds this funny;he’s probably never been flustered in his life._

“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” Hah. Now it’s your turn to half-chuckle, half-sigh, relieved to be out of the spotlight for the moment. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

In your peripheral vision, you see him cock his head. “You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.” She puckers her lips. “Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.”

“Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all.” John looks down to see what he’s holding before extending a hand. “A napkin.”

“Why?” she purrs. “Are you feeling exposed?”

“I don’t think John knows where to look.” Eyes still averted, he offers her his coat, and you feel a pang of... _not jealousy not jealousy NOT JEALOUSY. It’s not like I have a monopoly on Sherlock’s coat._

_Or on Sherlock._

“No, I think he knows exactly where.” She crosses to John, and after making him squirm for a sufficient amount of time, reaches back for the coat. “I’m not sure about you.”

“If I wanted to look at naked women I’d borrow John’s laptop.” God, even with your eyes glued to the coffee table, you can practically _hear_ the eye roll in his voice.

The Woman is covered up, now, practically drowning in his coat. _Not. Jealous._ You look up to see John looking confused. And concerned. “You do borrow my laptop.” 

“I confiscate it.”

“Well, never mind,” Irene interrupts, returning to the sofa to sit in the spot Sherlock just vacated - right next to you. “We’ve got better things to talk about. Now tell me – I need to know. How was it done?”

“What?”

She kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet up under her. “The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?”

You look up at her, surprised. “That’s not why we’re here.

She chuckles, her eyes sweeping your face. “No, no, no, you’re here for the photographs but that’s never gonna happen, and since we’re here just chatting anyway…” Is it just you, or is she spending an above-average amount of time glancing at your lips?

“That story’s not been on the news yet. How do you know about it?”

“I know one of the policemen.” She doesn’t bother to look at John as she answers him. “Well, I know what he likes.”

“Oh.” _Please stop looking at me like that. Change the subject. Change the subject._ “A-And you like policemen?”

She smiles. “I like detective stories – and detectives. Brainy’s the new sexy.”

“Positionofthecar.”

At least, that’s what you _think_ he was trying to say. What it sounded like was a lot closer to “pizsizacah” than to any actual words. _Excuse me, sir, did you just have a stroke?_ From the looks on Irene and John’s faces, it seems like they were having similar thoughts.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Er, the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That’s all you need to know.” His words this time were at least coherent, but still spit out at twice the normal speed.

_Is...is he trying to impress her?_

She shrugs. “Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?”

“He wasn’t.”

“You don’t think it was murder?”

“I know it wasn’t.”

“How?”

“The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I’m looking for are in this room.”

For the first time, she has to take a moment to pause. “Okay, but how?

He purses his lips in amusement. “So they are in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in.” The two man make eye contact for a second longer than you’d expect before John exits the room, leaving the bowl and the napkin on a side table and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock spins around abruptly, beginning to pace the room. “Two men alone in the countryside several yards apart, and one car.

She feigns surprise. “Oh. I – I thought you were looking for the photos now.”

“No, no. Looking takes ages. I’m just going to find them but you’re moderately clever and we’ve got a moment, so let’s pass the time.” He never calls anyone clever, not even John.

Not even you.

“Two men, a car, and nobody else,” he continues. “The driver’s trying to fix his engine. Getting nowhere. And the hiker’s taking a moment, looking at the sky.” He gestures with his hands, as though he were painting the landscape for the two of you. Well, for her, anyway. “Watching the birds?” Clearly not, from the look on his face. “Any moment now, something’s gonna happen. What?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “The hiker’s going to die.”

“No, that’s the result. What’s going to happen?”

That throws her off. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, well, try to.”

“Why?”

“Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think.” He stops a moment and gives her a look. Not just a look, a _Look_. “It’s the new sexy.”

“The car’s going to backfire.” They both turn to look at you, and you immediately regret having drawn their attention - it only makes you feel even more the third wheel than before - but you push back the butterflies, continuing. “There’s going to be a loud noise, loud enough for the hiker to hear - ” You look at Sherlock with wide eyes, coming to a realization, and he nods back almost imperceptibly in confirmation. You turn back to Irene and shrug, trying to hide your smile. “So, yeah. A noise.”

She looks confused. “So what?”

Sherlock answers before you have a chance to. “Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance…” He tilts his head. As if on cue, the fire alarm goes off, and Irene shoots a glance at the mirror above the fireplace. He follows her gaze, and smiles. “Thank you. On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.” He runs his fingers along the underside of the mantelpiece and presses up on some unseen buttons, triggering a mechanism that slides the mirror to the side and reveals a small safe behind. He glances back at her. “Really hope you don’t have a baby in here. That’s enough now, John!” The smoke detector doesn’t stop. “John!”

“Just a minute!”

Sherlock returns his attention to the safe. “Hmm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit’s always on the first key used – that’s quite clearly the three – but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I’d say from the make that it’s a six digit code. Can’t be your birthday – no disrespect but clearly you were born in the eighties; the eight’s barely used, so …”

“I’d tell you the code right now, but you know what? I already have.” Even cornered, she stares him down as though she still had the upper hand. She tilts her head slightly, mirroring Sherlock’s condescending expression from earlier. “ _Think_.”

The high pitched beeping is threatening to drive you crazy. “Hey, Doc, you need some help out there?”

Just as you peek your head out the door, you're shoved out of the way by a tall blond in a black suit. From your sudden seat on the ground, you see he’s followed in by two men. The first drags John into the sitting room; the third grabs you and pulls you closer to where John and Irene are now kneeling on the floor, then drops you to the ground and points a gun at your head.

_ShitshitshitshitSHIT. I swear to God, if I'm going to die in this dimension, it won’t be dressed like this. Not today. Not ever._

“Do you want me on the floor, too?” Sherlock asks faux-innocently. _Ever the smartass._

“No, sir, I want you to open the safe.”

“An American? Interesting,” Sherlock says, echoing your thoughts. “What do you care?”

“The safe, please.”

“I don’t know the code.”

“We’ve been listening. She said she told you.”

“Well, if you’d been listening, you’d know she didn’t.”

The American looks unamused. “I’m assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I’m assuming you didn’t, Mr. Holmes.”

“For God’s sake,” John says desperately. “ _She’s_ the one who knows the code. Ask her.”

“Yes, sir. She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.”

The Woman speaks up. “Mr. Holmes doesn’t - ”

“Shut up,” the American snaps. “One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship.” To your surprise, she obeys, and after a moment of silence, he continues. “Mr. Archer. On the count of three, shoot Ms. (L/N).”

“Excuse me?” (It’s the only thing you can think to say.)

“One.”

“Wha - whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, _whoa_.” The guard presses the gun harder against your skull. “I know it! I know it. Let me - ”

“Shut up, Ms. (L/N).”

“I don’t have the code,” Sherlock says, sounding more exasperated than anything else.

“Two.”

“I don’t know the code,” he repeats, more panicked this time.

“I'm prepared to believe you any day now, Mr. Holmes.”

“Six digits,” you blurt out. “Starts on a three. Sherlock’s right, she didn’t tell us - she showed us. Well, showed him.” You realize you’re banking a whole lot on the assumption that these guys aren’t going to kill you with every additional word that comes out of your mouth, but you have to try. And as of now, your brains are still, thankfully, intact. “ _Think_ , Sherlock.”

His eyes pop as the meaning of your words sinks in. You hope.

“Three.”

Or not.

"No, stop!”

_Oh, thank God._

The entire room waits with baited breath as he makes his way back over to the safe, punching in one set of two numbers, then another. When he enters the fifth and sixth numbers, the safe beeps. You relax for a second, before the continued pressure of gun-on-head forces you to tense up again.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” The American nods in the direction of the safe. “Open it, please.”

Sherlock’s hand lingers on the door to the safe, and you silently beg him to open it so you can get this freaking gun pointed away from your brain. He turns his head slightly and mutters, “Vatican cameos."

And a split second later, all hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo.  
> Yoooooo, this chapter took FOREVER to write, mainly because it's so much dialogue taken directly from the show and because I typed a significant portion of it on a tablet rather than my laptop. But we finally made it! Yay! :D Hope you enjoy! College is lit, Sherlock is lit, YOU GUYS are the lit-est, and I'll see you all in the next chapter. :) Leave all comments below, I'll answer next chapter's comments sometime in the next 12 hours, and I love you all!
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> DoeEyedDarling


	14. Chapter 14

As Irene knocks out the third guard, Sherlock nudges his hand against yours. You’re surprised, until you feel him slip something into it - a camera phone. _The_ camera phone.

The next few minutes are a blur. You mostly stay out of the way, as John leaves the room to check the rest of the house, and Irene attempts to engage Sherlock in some more banter. But, you realize with a start, he’s focused on... _me_?

Oh, right, you still have the phone. You pass it to him, trying not to smirk at the way Irene’s eyes widen ever so slightly. _Well, well, well...look who’s got the upper hand now._

“Well, there’s the knighthood in the bag.” He flips it in the air, and then hands it back to you.

Her gaze doesn’t once leave the phone. “Ah. And that’s mine.”

You step back, afraid of what she might do to get it. “No.”

“No?” She chuckles. “So the pet has a backbone, now, does she? Drop it.”

“I didn’t dress up like _this_ just so I could risk my life _and_ come out empty-handed.” You shoot Sherlock a look, and then start walking towards the door. “We’re taking the phone. Sherlock, John, could we maybe speed up the going-home process? I need a shower. And some pants.

“There’s a passcode,” she calls out after you. You stop, and immediately press the home button to test her theory. Sure enough, there are spaces for a four-digit code, laid against a screensaver that reads I AM LOCKED. “The phone’s useless without it. And besides, I have copies.”

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock answers. “You’ll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn’t be able to sell them.”

“Who says I’m selling?”

She holds out her hand again. You ignore it. “Well, whatever’s on here is worth at least enough for them,” you nod at the men on the floor, “to be willing to kill for. Seems safe to assume it’s more than a couple of risque photos.”

“That camera phone is my life, Miss (L/N). I’d die before I let you take it. It’s my protection.”

“Sherlock!"

Sherlock smiles. “It was.”  
The three of you follow John’s voice to the bedroom, where he’s bent on the floor, feeling Kate for a pulse. “Must have come in this way.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock goes through another door, into what you assume is a bathroom or closet.   
Irene looks down at her PA with concern. John notices. “It’s all right. She’s just out cold.”

“Well, God knows she’s used to that. There are back and side entrances. Better check them, Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes.”

“Sure.” John nods. “Come on, Sherlock. (Y/N), keep an eye on the girl.”

You watch them leave the room, then take his former position on the floor besides Kate, monitoring her breathing. “Y’know, for someone who just accidentally killed a man, you seem really, really calm.”

She shrugs. “He would have killed me. It was self defence in advance.” She begins to walk across the room to you. You rise and step back, at first, but then will yourself to stand your ground. It’s hard, though. In the heels and Sherlock’s coat, she seems impossibly tall and formidable, and she’s looking at you like she’s ready to eat you alive.

“I’m not going to give up the phone,” you whisper. “None of us will.” She smiles, and shakes her head. She reaches out, causing you to flinch, but all she does is brush her hand against your shoulder, lightly stroking your arm.

“I know, pet.” Her hand slowly encircles your wrist, but before you can jerk away, she spins around behind you and stabs you in the other arm with the syringe she’d been hiding behind her back. “That’s why I have to do _this_.”

 _What_? You trip backwards, and fall after she slaps your cheek.

“Give it to me. Now. Give it to me.”

You’re feeling dizzy and sick in a way you aren’t used to, but you try to resist, clutching the phone to your chest. You shake your head weakly.

“Give it to me.” You shake your head again, and she sighs. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” You hear her take a few steps to grab something, and then return. “Drop it.”

You don’t even bother responding, directing what little energy you have left towards attempting to stand back up, until a sharp crack of something against your cheek knocks you back down on your knees. She punctuates each of the next few words with another smack of the crop.

“I... said... _drop_ it.”

The last time she strikes you, it’s a hit straight to your hand, and you hear the phone hit the floor before you even realize you dropped it, or that you yourself are now lying on your back.

“Ah. Thank you, dear. Now tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. They’re not for blackmail, just for insurance. Besides...I might want to see her again.”

You summon just barely enough strength to push yourself up on your forearms, but she presses you back down gently with one foot on your abdomen.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, _no_. It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it.” You feel the soft leather of the riding crop on your face, stroking where you’ve just been struck. “Yes, that’s a good girl.” She steps off of you, and you hear the click-clack of her heels grow farther and farther away as your consciousness begins to slip. “Take care of Mr. Holmes for me, Miss (L/N). I’d prefer for him to remember me this way - the woman who _beat_ him.”


	15. Chapter 15

“How did you know?” John asks a few days later.

“Hm?”

“The code. How did you know it was her measurements?”

“Just a hunch.” You look up from your textbook - thanks to The Woman’s little trick with the syringe, you missed a whole Friday of classes, meaning even more catch up work than before. Mostly readings, but still. “I wouldn’t have been able to get the exact numbers, though, so I was counting pretty heavily on Sherlock for that bit.”

_ Ah. _

You and John both look in Sherlock’s direction at the sound. “What was that?”

He looks bored as ever. “Text alert.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t remember your phone ever making that sound before.”

“Someone must have changed it as a joke.”

Your attempt to ask  _ who _ is cut short by the closing of the stairway door. When you look up to see who’d just walked, it takes you a second to place the sharp face, sharper suit, and smug-yet-annoyed aura - you’ve been in this universe long enough that even characters you knew as a fan seem like new faces when at last you meet them - but once you do, you have to fight to urge to squeal.

“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.” The newcomer puts away his cell and addresses Sherlock. “I ask you to complete one simple task - ”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s gaze remains fixed on the newspaper. “I wondered when you’d show up to reprimand me. It certainly took you long enough.”

“One. Simple. Task. A matter of national importance, no less.”

“The photographs are perfectly safe.”

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker!”

“She’s not interested in blackmail.” He flips to the next page, though you can see from where you’re sitting that he’s not actually reading a word. “She wants ... protection for some reason. I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?”

“How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied.”

“Hands are tied.” You giggle.“Good one.”

Mycroft doesn’t seem to share your amusement. He gives you a half-second glare before turning his attention back to Sherlock. “And for all I’ve heard about this one,” he continues, jerking his head in your direction, “she wasn’t nearly as helpful as I’d anticipated”

“I’m sorry, what?” You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised - Mycroft is practically the whole bloody British government on his own, he’s probably kept tabs on you since the moment you fell out of that taxi. But as far as he knows, you have no idea who he is, so you have no choice but to feign ignorance. “And who exactly are you?”

He cocks his head at Sherlock. “Why, little brother, nearly three months and you haven’t mentioned me once?” He extends a hand, which you accept. “Mycroft Holmes. I would have paid visit sooner, Miss (L/N), but I’m afraid cleaning up Sherlock’s messes is a full-time occupation.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “If  _ you _ clean up his messes, then what the hell have John and I been doing for the past few months?” You had expected a laugh at that, but all you get is a thin-lipped grimace.  _ Maybe that’s how he smiles? _

“Enough with the pleasantries,” Sherlock cuts in. “You see how this works, Mycroft: that camera phone is her “Get out of jail free” card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty.”

“That’s your brilliant solution? I ought to have gone in myself,” Mycroft mutters.

Sherlock finally looks up. “And dealt with all the others who were after her? CIA-trained killers, I believe.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft,” John calls out from the kitchen.

“Which begs the question: what else does she have? The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more. Much more.” He stands up at that, and crosses to look Mycroft in the eyes. “Something big’s coming, isn’t it?” 

All at once, Mycroft shifts from stone-faced to shifty. “Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this.”

“Oh, will I?”

“Yes, Sherlock, you will.” Sherlock shrugs and walks back to the window, leaving Mycroft to collect himself. “Now - ”

“To clarify,” you interrupt. “Does that order apply to me and John, as well? Or just Sherlock?”

Mycroft glares at you again, and you stifle a giggle. “ _ Now _ , if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”

“Do give her my love.” Sherlock reaches for something, though you can’t tell what it is until you hear the beginning of “My Country, Tis of Thee” ( _ or “God Save the Queen,” I guess _ ). He continues the melody long after Mycroft has left, and you smile, letting the sweet shrillness of the violin fade into the background as you return to your books.


	16. Chapter 16

It’s been several months free of Irene Adler when Mycroft waltzes back into 221B Baker Street, looking even more harried than usual.

You and John are seated at opposite ends of the living room, and you look up. “Hey hey! Long time no see!” He doesn’t return the greeting, which you’ve come to expect by now (though you’re determined to wear down his constant seriousness at some point). 

What you  _ don’t _ expect though, is what he says next. 

“Aha, Miss (L/N) - just the person I was looking for.”  
“It’s (Y/N), really, none of that Miss stuff - sorry, _what_?” Typically, he comes in, brushes past you to find Sherlock (or to find John so that _he_ can find Sherlock), spends a few minutes arguing, and then leaves. Not once has one of his requests been addressed to _you_. “Sherlock is in his room, I think, I could - ”

“ _ Was _ in my room. Mycroft, what’s this about?”

“What do you know about Clark Easton?”

He’s still looking at you. “Um...pretty much nothing? Why, should I?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Dr. Watson?”

“What, the business tycoon?”

“Quite. A few months ago, it came to my attention that he has connections to a figure that M16 has been trying to locate for a while now. However, we have been unsuccessful in finding concrete enough evidence, and without that or a confession, we lack reasonable cause to bring him in for interrogation.”

“A figure - do you mean Irene Adler? I thought you already knew where she was?”

“ _ Not _ Irene Adler.” He glances at Sherlock. “That is all I can tell you.”

“She isn’t bugged, Mycroft, you may as well give her the whole truth before you rope her into whatever little scheme you have planned.”

You nod. “The whole truth would be appreciated.”  
Mycroft sighs. “Very well. It would seem that there have been more than a few deals conducted between Easton and the individual we know as James Moriarty.”

Your pulse stops for a moment. “Now  _ that’s _ a name I’m familiar with.” You think about all you’d seen of Moriarty from your fangirl days, and all you’ve heard about him from Sherlock and John, and allow yourself a shiver of fear before you move on to the question that’s  _ really _ pressing on your mind. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Easton will be in town next week for a series of conferences, including a ceremonial dinner at a high-end hotel. I intercepted a call he made to an escort agency to request a date for the evening, and I have been looking for a suitable replacement to go undercover and extract some kind of usable intel.”

You wait for him to go on before realizing what he’s implying “Me?” He nods. “You want  _ me _ to go undercover as a prostitute - ”

“Escort.”

“Sure, escort - and try and get this Easton guy to confess to being in cahoots with a criminal mastermind? After  months of you having no success in trying to do just that?” He nods again. “You have a whole Secret Service worth of agents, a decent portion of whom I’m assuming are female - isn’t this  _ their _ job?”

‘One would think. But the fact of the matter is, I have not been given the...necessary clearance...to authorize the use of government resources on this particular case.”

You stare at him, gaping. “Oh, my God. They told you no, didn’t they?”

“There are several - ”

“Oh my  _ God! _ They did!” You look back at Sherlock. “Oh, c’mon, I can’t be the only one who finds this funny.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Will you do it or not?”

You pout at him mockingly. “Aw, Mikey, you don’t need to look so upset.”

He glares at Sherlock. “First the doctor, now her. If you’re going to insist on continuing to pick up strays, I - ”

Sherlock smirks, still looking at his phone. “Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn’t do that, Mycroft. Insulting someone to their face is hardly the best way to get them to do you a favor.”

“Let me remind you just how much is at stake here!”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He locks his phone and springs up from the couch, calling over his shoulder as he makes his way into the kitchen. “She’ll do it.”

“What? No, I won’t!”

“She will.”

“I think that’s my choice, please and thanks.”

“Miss (L/N), this is the single most important case you have ever been privy to during your time here at Baker Street. Your involvement in this isn’t exactly optional anymore.”

That, if nothing else, triggers your interest. Mycroft has barely acknowledged your existence for the past few months - you supposed he considered you too much of a “ _ goldfish _ ” to be worth noticing - and now he’s  _ ordering  _ you to help? Clearly, this is important. 

You have to say yes.

But...that doesn’t mean you can’t mess with him a bit. “I don’t know…” You put on your best expression of faux-pensiveness and cross the room to the fireplace, examining your reflection in the mirror above the mantel. “I mean, if the rest of the British government disapproves, it must be with good reason…”

He sighs. “My patience is wearing thin. If you decide to take me up on the offer, you know how to get in touch.”  
“Wait!” You raise your hands in surrender. “Kidding. Seriously, though - do you really think I’m the best person for this? I’m not really...y’know.” _A spy. Or a detective. Or from this dimension._

“I’ll take that as a yes. A team of aestheticians will arrive here tomorrow morning to get you ready while you’re debriefed. I wish you the best of luck.” 

With that, he’s gone. 

“Hair and makeup team? Sure, none of  _ them _ can go undercover…” you mutter.

“Don’t underestimate yourself. You did quite well when we went after Irene Adler.”

You glare at him. “I thought we agreed not to speak of that.”

“Pigtails and all…”

“I  _ will _ throw this textbook at you.”

“Pity we didn’t get any pictures,” John chimes in. “You could have given them to your prep team, as a reference.”

You roll your eyes, sitting down at the kitchen table and pushing aside Sherlock’s...experiment...in order to make space for your school books. “How about, instead of being a couple of sarcastic douchebags, you tell me what I’m even going undercover _ for? _ ”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sherlock Holmes: The One That Got Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988676) by [Amethyst97Skye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye)




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